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Wednesday, 26 September 2012

Telling a Story He Can't Tell: 1

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It
was 5:45 am; he had just woken up and had gone to the balcony to have a fag.
Having a fag early in the morning was a routine for him and the balcony was
idyllic. No one in his family knew he was a chain smoker, except his elder
sister. November was the month and 1999 was the year. He was in one of his
solitudes. He lit the first cigarette and had the first puff; he watched the
smokes make a random movement up the sky. He loved the way the smokes moved
each time he puffed. They moved like missiles en route to their targets. The
first fag was finished; the second, finished; he was on the third fag when he
heard some sounds, like some people were crying. On the first thought, he
didn’t believe it was a sound of cry because to him there was no reason whatsoever
someone should be crying at that time. But he was wrong. The sound kept
reverberating in his head as he moved further into his thoughts; this time it
was more real than surreal. He was compelled by the tone of the voice that
screamed, so he abandoned his fag and whatever he was ruminating. The voice was
his mother’s. Everyone was crying, his mother was screaming on top of her voice
like one of these Pentecostal pastors calling upon God, and tearing up her
clothes like an angry fighter waiting to meet his opponent. He looked around
the room in awe of what was going on; and there he saw his father lying
lifeless on the bed. He couldn’t cry because ever since his father had been
sick he had been crying. Probably, all the tears in his eyes had dried up. He went
closer to his father’s dead body; kissed his fore head and uttered: 'RIP dad, I
loved you, I still love you and I will always love you.'